Bedtime Stories for Maniacs
by 96 Hubbles
Summary: For the "Newkirk the Storyteller" challenge. Newkirk tells Carter his version of the story of "The Adventure of Foulkes Rath" by Adrian Conan Doyle and John Dickson Carr. Now Complete!
1. Chapter 1

**Bedtime Stories For Maniacs **

**--------------------------------**

_Disclaimer: No own show. No make money. No want infringe or reflect on copyrighted materials. _

_**Chapter 1**_

_**---------  
**_

"Everything's spinning."

"Well, then don't raise your 'ead, yeh silly sod."

A prone and miserable Andrew Carter rolled his head very, very gently to the right and opened one eye to glare at the smug man sitting beside his bunk. "I don't remember calling _you_ names when you were down with this."

"Not my fault you didn't take the opportunity," Newkirk pointed out.

"I'll remember that for next time. You could at least try and be sympathetic, you know."

"Oh, quit yer moaning. Least I stayed, everyone else cleared off. And I offered to fetch you something to eat, didn't I?"

Carter rolled his eyes. "Oh yeah, big sacrifice on your part - you knew I wouldn't take you up on it."

"Stomach still botherin' then?" Newkirk asked. In answer, Carter wrinkled his nose and draped his forearm over his eyes to shield them from the light. Newkirk leaned forward and put his hand on Carter's arm. His voice took on a serious tone. "You know mate, if there's something you want to tell me, you can."

Carter opened his eyes again to look at him. "Tell you? Tell you what?"

"Andrew," Newkirk asked gravely, "You 'aven't gone and got yourself in the family way, have you now?"

Carter batted his friend's hand away with exasperation as Newkirk laughed. "Oh, _HA HA_!" Carter said. "You know it's an inner ear infection from that dumb cold and I'm only sick cause the whole stupid room won't stop turning! For Pete's sake, you had it last week!"

"Oh, my my, bit grumpy today, aren't we?" Newkirk asked, wiping a tear away.

"Hmpf. I bet you were the one who gave it to me, too."

"Oh, I was only joking, mate. No need to take on like this," Newkirk said, patting Carter on the shoulder good-naturedly. "C'mon, what do you need? You tell old Peter and I'll get it for you."

"I need another nurse."

"Well, that's a fine thing to say!"

"Are you kidding?"

"Got you a cold compress, didn't I?"

"Yeah, and now I've got the chills, thank you very much. And the shivering is making my stomach feel even worse."

"Complain, complain, complain…The compress was supposed to help with the dizziness."

"Yeah, well…just don't quit your day job, Florence Nightingale."

"Blimey, you're in a right state, aren't you? You whinge nearly as much as Lebeau," Newkirk said as he stood and pulled the blanket off of his own bunk. But as he draped it over Carter, he was pleased to see that the other man's faint trembling eased a little.

"What's 'whinge' mean?" Carter demanded.

"Whine. Bellyache. Gripe. Complain."

"Then I was _not_ 'whinging'!"

Newkirk sat back down on the bench. "Fine, fine," he nodded. "You weren't whinging. But how about you try and get some sleep? Give us both a rest."

"I can't sleep," Carter sighed. "Even when I close my eyes, I can feel the room moving. It's like the darkness behind my eyelids is rotating."

Newkirk grimaced; he remembered that sensation all too well. "All right, then," he said, "how about I read to you to help you get to sleep?"

"You got a book in mind?" Carter asked, smiling for the first time that day. He reached up and pulled a lurid yellow paperback book out from the missing slat of Newkirk's bunk. "Like this one here?"

Newkirk stiffened and snatched the book out of Carter's hand.

" '_Nellie the Naughty Nun,' " _Carter snickered. "That's quite the title, Newkirk."

Peter Newkirk gaped like a fish. "How long 'ave you known about this being there?" he finally managed to spit out.

"Oh, awhile," Carter said nonchalantly. "Wasn't as good as the last one, though," he giggled.

Newkirk yelped with disbelief, "Last one?"

"You know, the one with the castle. What was it? Oh yeah, _'__The Wicked Wenches of Wellesley Hall.__'__"_

Newkirk sputtered and smacked Carter playfully with the book. He didn't like being caught out, but it was hard to keep from laughing. Even if the book was nothing but a cheeky romp with a bit of eager, jolly bed-hopping thrown in and hardly naughtier than the joke postcards his Gran brought back from her trip to the seaside, the surprise of Carter blithely stealing a look, added to the raised eyebrows and 'got you' smirk on Andrew's face, was enough to get him going. "You…!" he said, pointing at Carter with the book. "I always felt you'd turn out to be a ruddy dark horse!"

"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

"Never you mind! And I am NOT reading you this book!"

"That's okay by me. It's a bit of a relief, honestly," Carter said. "It's not the kind of thing you want to hear coming out of the lips of another guy, after all. If you know what I mean."

Newkirk snorted and shook his head. After he stood and made a show of shoving the book back under his mattress in a spot where it wouldn't poke through the missing slat, he offered to get another book.

"No thanks. To tell the truth, I don't really like being read to. It makes me feel like awkward. Like some kind of helpless invalid," Carter explained. "One time, my aunt practically locked herself in my room with me and forced me to listen to 'Wuthering Heights', and all I had was the sniffles!"

"Blimey!"

"You got that right!"

"All right, so 'ow bout I tell you a story, then?"

Carter gave him a dubious look. "What, you mean like a bedtime story or something? Geez, don't you think I'm a little too old for that?"

The sceptical and slightly questioning look Newkirk gave Carter earned him a fist being shaken in his face by a scowling patient. "Newkirk…" Carter threatened. "You _had better _think I'm too old for that!"

"Maybe 'too old' is the problem! I should think after Nellie you could do with something clean and wholesome," Newkirk scolded. "So how would _'__The Princess and the Pea__'_ suit you?"

Carter blew a raspberry. "Awful! I never liked that one."

"What's not to like? Pretty princess, wealthy prince, happy ending…"

"Pushy mother-in-law who thinks people need to be tested to see if they're good enough to marry. Not to mention a girl who can feel a tiny little pea under twenty mattresses! Good luck keeping that one happy, boy!" he sniffed.

"Now that's hardly fair, Andrew. Perhaps the prince needed a bird who'd be able to get worked up about pea-sized things."

"Huh?"

"Maybe you should give _Nellie_ another look-through."

Carter's eyes narrowed. "Just what in the heck is that supposed to mean?"

"It means you're no fun when you're grumpy. Fine, so no fairy tales, then. What about I make something up?"

"Oh, all right."

Newkirk thought for a few minutes and then started in. "So we start off with our intrepid hero, whose name just 'appens to be Peter Newkirk - "

Carter snorted. "Intrepid hero. That's a hot one."

"Do you want to hear this story or not?"

"All right, all right. Geez, somebody's a little sensitive."

"Then shut yer gob and let me tell it. Now where was I?"

"_Our intrepid hero," _Carter recited sarcastically.

"If you're going to be that way, I'm not going to tell the story."

"Sorry."

"Fine. So we start off with our intrepid hero, Peter Newkirk. Intelligent, brave, charming, debonair, and devilishly handsome - "

"Oh brother! I think I've changed my mind. Is it too late to get a refund on my ticket to this cornball show?"

"Here now, enough of that! I'm trying to do something nice for you."

"Oh, I am sorry! Please _do_ go on, Mr. Intelligent, brave and devilishly handsome."

"I will. And you forgot charming and debonair."

Carter rolled his eyes and Newkirk began.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Chapter 2**_

_**---------  
**_

"So we start off with our intrepid hero, Peter Newkirk," Peter Newkirk narrated, "who, after thrashing the Germans, ending the war, and being decorated by the weeping and grateful King of England himself, has, through his unbelievable intelligence and cunning, his encyclopaedic knowledge of the streets and his breathtaking comprehension of the criminal mind, decided to become a detective."

"What about his steely-eyed bravery and his gallant, heroic nature?"

"No need to get snippy, Andrew. I realize that I learned the lesson at a young age, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't try to grasp it yourself."

"Lesson? What lesson?"

Newkirk looked heavenwards. "That we can't all be me," he pronounced nobly.

"I got news for ya, buddy - I don't even think _you_ can be you."

"Carter, are you trying to see the inside of your skull?"

"What the heck are you talking about? No, I'm not trying to see the inside of my skull."

"Then stop doing that with your eyes! Blimey, I'm never going to get this story started."

"Sorry."

"All right. So Peter Newkirk - "

"Our intrepid hero."

"Carter!"

"Okay, okay." Carter pretended to zip his lips and Newkirk went on.

_--x--_

"_So Peter Newkirk, or I should say _I_, since it's me," Newkirk started,_

"I was sitting in my favourite arm-chair, in my tastefully done flat, and reading the _Times_ when the telegram came. Postmarked from…um…

_--x--_

"What's the hold up?"

"I'm trying to think of a good name. What do you think about Squinchley-on-the-Green?"

"That's awful!"

"What about…Upper Tidwell, then?"

"Peter Newkirk, the intrepid hero of Upper Tidwell. Yeah, that sounds about right."

"You must've been a right bundle of joy for your parents come bedtime, Andrew."

"Just tell the story."

_--x--_

Postmarked from Upper Tidwell,_ Newkirk started once more, _the telegram ran like this:

YOUR ASSISTANCE VITAL ON HOCHSTETTER CASE STOP WILL CALL ON YOU 12:00 TODAY STOP HOGAN

Now, this was a big case. It was all over the papers and the wireless. Gruesome job, too. That being the case, I'd reckoned I'd be called in sooner or later and so I'd followed it closely, but there'd been no mention of the name Hogan.

Just then, my assistant came in. Useful enough bloke to have around, I suppose, but a bit dim. So let's call him… Carter.

_--x--_

"Hey!"

"Oi! No shouting out from the cheap seats, if you please."

_--x--_

Carter came in and I told him to take a seat so we could hash out who might have had a hand in the whole business.

"I don't know anything," Carter said to me. No surprises there, but I was willing to fill him in.

"Squire Hochstetter of Upper Tidwell, Sussex; local magistrate, richest sod in the district and a thoroughly nasty bit of work by all accounts, was murdered in his home last night. There's a whole household of suspects - butler, house servants, chauffeur, groom, lodge-keeper, couple of gameskeepers, and whatnot. - but it looks as though his nephew James Kinchloe is the one what's gonna be sent up for the job."

"Why him?" Carter asked.

"It's like this: last night it said, the squire and his nephew were having their dinner, round about 8:00. Then, afterwards, the squire sent for his horse and went out for a ride, which took about an hour. After he came back, 'im and his nephew went into the study and sent for some port. When the butler came with the port, he were just outside the door when he said he heard a right to-do going on inside. He knocked and went in with the port and, according to him, the two gents must've been having a blazing row, because they were flushed in the face and very brusque with him. Now that was pretty usual for the old squire, he says, but the nephew was never like that with any of the staff and so it was something what the butler remarked on to himself. In fact, he never even saw the nephew's face. Klink, that's the butler, said Kinchloe stood by the window, looking out onto the night with his arms crossed over his chest, and wouldn't even turn to look at him, let alone say 'Thank you, Klink' like he always does."

"Then what happened?"

"Later that night, just after midnight the butler says, the whole house was woken by a scream from the hall. Rushing down, still in their night-clothes, they were shocked to find Squire Hochstetter lying senseless in a pool of blood, with his skull split like the skin of bursting grape. And standing in 'is dressing-gown, right next to the body of the dying man, was Jimmy Kinchloe with a blood-stained axe in his hand!"

_--x--_

"For Pete's sake, Newkirk, _an axe-murderer_? You're trying to help me get to sleep with a story about an _axe-murderer_?"

"Blimey, Carter, you can't have a good story without a murder in it! It wouldn't be British!"

_--x--_

As I went on to explain to my assistant, things looked very dark for poor James Kinchloe. Not only was he holding the murder weapon in his very own hands, but Squire Hochstetter, not quite dead yet, his head in Klink's lap as the valiant butler tried to staunch the blood, has to up and raise himself on his elbows, and with his dying breath, condemn his nephew by whispering 'It - was - Catch - low! It - was - Catch -!' before sinking back and passing from this earth.

The local constabulary were summoned, just in time to confuse the issue and generally bugger things up no doubt, but in this case it did look as though things were open and shut. James Kinchloe was arrested for the murder of his uncle, Squire Hochstetter, and in the papers it says he was removed to Lewes.

Carter sat for awhile, puzzling over the whole thing. "What did Kinchloe say about the fight with his uncle?" he finally asked me.

"According to the Times, he told the police he and his uncle had been rowing about the Squire selling off part of the estate. Said his uncle had been doing that a lot of late - selling bits off, I mean - and Kinchloe wanted to know why. Told all this to the police voluntarily, I might add."

"Does that mean he's innocent?" Carter asked eagerly. He hates to see people hang, you see.

"Could be a clever ploy on his part, mate, so don't get your hopes up," I cautioned. "With the facts the way they are, I can't see any way out of it for this Kinchloe bloke. Why this Hogan is even coming here is a mystery - I don't think even _I_ can see where things happened any different than what the police say they did."

There was a knock on the door and Carter went to open it. He showed our visitor into the room and took his coat for him.

Mr. Hogan was dynamic and handsome man, with dark hair and wearing the suit of a successful chap who knows how to dress. However, his face was pale and wore the expression of a beaten man.

"I'm grateful you could see me, Mr. Newkirk. By your reputation, you're the only man who can help me now."

"I'm willing to lend a hand, mate," I said, "but I don't see what I can do."

"Just hear me out, that's all I ask. If you can't shed any light on the whole mess, I'll know it's over."

_--x--_

" 'Ere! Wot you laughing at then?"

Carter clasped his hands together like someone praying in supplication. _"__Oh, Mr. Newkirk! Please, please, help us! We don__'__t know what to do without you!__ Save us, Mr. Newkirk! You're our only hope!"_he pleaded in a high falsetto, just barely managing to get through it before bursting out into hysterical laughter.

"Your parents didn't smack you nearly enough as a child, you know that? It would serve you right if I stopped telling you the story," Newkirk pouted.

"Oh, c'mon Peter, I'm sorry. I didn't mean nothing by it. Go on with the story. I'll be quiet, I promise."

"Fine."

_--x--_

"I'm James Kinchloe's lawyer," Mr. Hogan told us. "And I swear to you the police have got it wrong. Kinch is one of the finest men I know. He could never have done something like this."

"Not the way I read it."

"But you've never met the man. His whole life he's had a reputation for being both a gentle and honourable individual."

"Very well, we'll hear you out. By the way, who's in charge of the case?"

"In view of the horrific nature of the murder, Scotland Yard has sent down Inspector Lebeau - Mr. Newkirk, is there something wrong?"

"No. Why do you ask?"

"The strangest look went across your face when I mentioned the Inspector's name."

"It's no matter, mate. But I think I will take your case after all."

And I was smiling. Now we were going to have some fun!


	3. Chapter 3

_**Chapter 3**_

_**---------**_

I sent Carter to the kitchen to fetch some tea and coffee while Mr. Hogan went on with his story. He had just finished telling me how the newspaper articles were true as far as they went, but how they'd left out the fact that the front door of Squire Hochstetter's home had been unlocked that fateful night, when there was a terrific banging from the kitchen.

"Pay 'im no mind," I reassured Hogan. "He used to work in demolitions. He's not happy less he's making enough racket to deafen the whole bloomin' street. So now you tell me the old squire told Klink the butler that he would lock the door himself?"

"Uh, yes, that's right," Hogan said, still looking kitchenward with some trepidation.

"Well, that might not mean anything. Could've forgot after having the set-to with his nephew. But to my mind, there are a couple of things what want clearing up."

"And they are?"

_BANG!_

"Don't jump like that, chum. You'll wear yourself out. Andrew's only putting the kettle on."

"With dynamite?"

"You can never tell with him. Now, getting back to it, was the murdered man in 'is night-clothes?"

"No, Kinch was in his pyjamas and bath-robe, but Squire Hochstetter was fully dressed."

"What about this ride of his? Accustomed to going horseback riding late at night, was he?"

Hogan reached into his pocket and took out a cigar, having clearly decided to relax and ignore the risk of imminent death by exploding kitchen. I kindly lit the thing for him and then he sat back in the chair and thought about the question.

"Now that you mention it, no, I don't think I've ever heard anyone mention the squire going for a ride at night before," he said. "But is it relevant? He did come back safely, after all."

"Let me decide what's relevant here, mate. Now, can I ask if the squire had enough of the old folding stuff?"

"Did he have money, you mean? Yes, Hochstetter was a very wealthy man."

"Family wealth or did 'e make it himself?"

"A self-made man, from what I hear. He was one of the younger sons of a very large but impoverished family, so there wasn't much coming from that direction. Therefore, he emigrated to Canada about forty years ago, returning about ten years later after having amassed a fortune in some gold mine there. Both of his older brothers had died in the meantime, and didn't have any children, and so he got the family estate as well. It was large, but had been run into the ground pretty far when he got it. However, the man had the devil's own luck; a year after he inherited it, some high-ups from a sawmill company come along and say they want to buy a good chunk of it. The man made a killing and still kept half the estate."

"What did people in the area think of him? Is there the rending of cloth, or has Christmas come early?"

"Early Christmas. I don't know how much the papers are saying, but the village hated the s.o.b. He was snivelling and weaselly and bitter."

" 'Ow about dangerous?"

Just then Carter interrupted us by dropping the tea tray on the table with a clatter. "Here we are!" he said, "Nice and hot."

"And 'alf out of the cups now," I complained. Blimey, where do you get good help these days?

"Why's there soot on the side of your head?" Hogan asked him.

"Oh, don't worry about that, it's nothing. Now, I've got the sugar, but I hope you don't want milk because I had to use it to put out the fire."

Hogan's eyes went a little wide. "Fire?" he questioned.

I waved Hogan off. "Pay no attention; you'll only spoil him. But if you could answer my question…"

"What was it again?"

"To your way of thinking, was this Hochstetter bloke a dangerous sort?"

"Truthfully, Mr. Newkirk, I thought he was very dangerous. He always had a new scheme for cheating someone and his rages at not getting what he wanted were legendary."

"Sounds like a big baby to me," Carter put in as he poured the tea.

"A baby with a room full of antique weapons and the power of his position of magistrate behind him," Hogan said.

"Doesn't sound like a bloke your friend Kinchloe would be on good terms with," I observed.

Hogan puffed a moment on his cigar, then sighed. "I guess there's no point in hiding it. No, I'm afraid they weren't on very good terms. Kinchloe has lived on the estate since he was a child, being the son of Hochstetter's widowed sister. Once the estate passed to Hochstetter, he stayed on to manage it."

"Does he get it now that Hochstetter has joined the choir invisible?" I asked.

"Yes."

"Boy, that doesn't seem right! Not if he's the one who killed the old guy!" Carter butted in.

"Andrew, he's not going to get the place if he's convicted of the old sod's murder; it's against the law!"

"Mr. Newkirk is right. If Kinchloe is convicted, he automatically loses any claims of inheritance. Since there are no other relatives, the estate would go to the government."

"One last question, Mr. Hogan," I asked. "What's Kinchloe's story about what went on last night?"

"He says that Hochstetter told him about selling this latest parcel of land while they were having dinner. Kinch admits he was upset and things got heated. Kinch argued that the sale wasn't necessary and did more harm than good, but when he did, he said Hochstetter rounded on him and nearly hit him. Later, the squire called for his horse to be saddled and then rode off without a word. He must have being stewing the entire time, because when he got back, he was still in a foul mood. Meanwhile, Kinch had been working up a good head of steam himself, so when the old man showed up calling for port in his study, Kinch cornered him in there and they had another argument. It got pretty ugly, but Kinch saw where it was going and decided to get out before it got worse. He states for the record that he said good night and left his uncle alive and well long before midnight. And I'm inclined to believe him."

"Yeah, but you're his friend," Carter pointed out.

"Yes, but Kinch has been aboveboard about the whole argument right from the start. He was found with the murder weapon in his hand, and yet he still admitted to quarrelling with his uncle without any hesitation."

"Anything else to share, mate?"

"Yes. Kinch says he was too riled up to sleep. He tossed and turned and as he lay there awake, he swore that he twice heard the voice of his uncle coming from the hall."

"Bloody hell, why didn't the poor blighter go and investigate?"

"I asked him that myself. He said the old man had been hitting the bottle pretty hard and he figured his uncle was simply raving to himself. The butler, Klink, confirms that this was something that happened more than once."

"All right, I get the picture. Go on."

"Kinch said he was finally drifting off to sleep when the clock in corridor outside his bedroom chimed midnight and that's when he, and everybody else, where shocked awake by the horrible yell from downstairs. He jumped out of bed, pulled on his bath-robe and rushed downstairs and into the study because he figured that's where his uncle would still be because that's where the old man liked to sit and do his drinking. When he hit the light switch next to the door, he was confronted with the terrible scene."

"There was blood everywhere," Hogan went on. "The hearth and fireplace were splattered with it and the squire himself was lying in a crimson pool with his arms above his head. Kinch rushed over and when he was bending over the body, that's when he saw something that very nearly caused him to be sick."

_--x--_

"Geez, Newkirk, don't mention being sick!" Carter groaned.

"Sorry, Andrew. Everything spinning again?"

"A little. And my ears are ringing."

"Maybe I'd best hold off on the story for awhile. I'll get you a compress and you try to get some sleep, all right?"

"Mmhmm…"


	4. Chapter 4

_**Chapter 4**_

_**---------**_

"So how's our patient today, then?" Newkirk asked the next morning.

"Well, I'm not dead yet," Carter groused unhappily.

Newkirk patted him on the shoulder. "That's the spirit, mate," he said, far too cheerfully for Carter's liking, "Always look on the bright side of life!"

Carter groaned and pulled his blanket over his head.

"If you're set on having another lie-in this morning, why don't I finish the story?"

"Our intrepid hero again?" Carter asked.

"Who better? Now, where did I leave off?"

"Kinch had just seen something that made him sick," Carter told him a little warily.

"Right-o."

_--x--_

Mr. Hogan continued with his tale: "Kinch saw that next to the body of his uncle lay an executioner's axe -"

_--x--_

"Is that it? A blood-covered axe?" Carter demanded. "We already knew that!"

"Bloody hell, Carter, how's a bloke ever supposed to tell a proper story when someone's forever interrupting him?"

"Sorry, but you've gotta admit it's kind of repetitive."

"You don't have to listen, you know."

"How can a guy not listen? I can't close my _ears_, for criminey's sake!"

"Can I get on with it?"

"Fine, fine, there's a bloody axe…"

_--x--_

As I was saying, Mr. Hogan told us how Kinchloe saw the bloody axe beside the body of Squire Hochstetter and he, Kinchloe that is, recognized it as part of a trophy of arms that hung above the chimney-piece.

"So naturally the poor sod grabbed it without thinking."

Hogan grimaced. "I'm afraid so."

"And just when Klink the butler and all the other staff rushed into the room, I take it." Hogan nodded.

I pondered the whole situation over in my mind for a few moments. Things looked deep, but instinct was telling me there was something more to the whole sodding mess. On the other hand, I had to weigh that against the idea of inflicting Carter and his rampant pyromania on an unsuspecting Sussex.

Sussex be damned, I never liked the place anyroad. I stood up. "Mr. Hogan, consider us hired." He stood likewise and shook my hand.

"That's wonderful, gentlemen. You can drive down with me if you wish."

In no time at all, we were getting our first glimpse of Upper Tidwell from Hogan's '37 Aston-Martin 4-Seater. Hogan had phoned ahead to get us reservations at the Nowhere Inn Particular,

_--x--_

"The nowhere in particular? What kind of name is that?"

"For pity's sake, Carter, this isn't panto! Audience participation is _not_ encouraged."

"What the heck is panto?"

"Oh, bloody… Nevermind, Carter! Just let me finish the flippin' story!"

"Hmpf. Nobody ever explains anything to me!"

_--x--_

Hogan had made us reservations at the Nowhere Inn Particular, an old stone building that looked to be the only flaming structure of any significance in the dismal little place. We were surrounded by green, rounded hills and the scent of the woodlands hemming us in was cloying up the air for miles around. 'Survivable' was the best that could be said for it. Positively bleedin' pastoral, it was.

At that point, time must've sodded off for a tea break, because it seemed a dog's age till we got from the village to the house. Finally we topped a hill and I was shuddering at endless moors rolling away in the view, when Hogan pointed ahead.

"There it is," he said, "the squire's estate and scene of the crime."

We turned into a drive so long I wouldn't have trusted Carter to find his way down it without a Saint Bernard to keep him alive, and pulled up outside a rambling, great bloody monster of a place. Hochstetter's inheritance might've been a drop in the bucket, but somewhere in the past his ancestors must've done their fair share of raping and pillaging to be able to put a heap like this down as collateral on their loan applications.

We got out and a couple of poor anonymous stiffs in livery came out, one to take the bags into the house and the other to take the car 'round back. Another bloke - Klink the butler by the looks of him - came out, followed by a distinctly undersized member of yer fancified Bobbies.

"Welcome to Foulkes Rath, gentlemen," Klink said, with a bit of a sniff.

"Why do the British name their houses?" Carter asked from behind me.

"Because none of them are able to count," quipped a French voice before I could get a word in.

"Ah, Inspector Lebeau," I said to the short man, "How good to see you again. Haven't moved the body yet, have you Froggie?"

"The body has been laid in the gun-room, sir," Klink said.

I threw my hands up in the air. "Oh bloody hell! What's wrong with the lot of you? Are you telling me not one of you has ever read Sherlock bloody Holmes?" I demanded. "You don't flipping move the flipping corpse! Things have to be seen in context! You may have just destroyed vital clues!"

"Sacre chats! _Englishmen_…" Inspector Lebeau scoffed with a shake of his head. "You have a man standing over the body with a bloody axe, who is the same man the victim himself identifies as his killer, and _still_ you cannot figure out who did it!"

I ignored him - yer typical copper or Yarder are clever enough in their way I suppose, but obviously there were pertinent points about this case what had gone right over Frenchie's head, (only to be expected, of course - wouldn't be much of a jump for them, would it?) - and I turned my attention back to the Jeeves with the monocle. "What about the rest of it? Nothing else been disturbed, I trust?"

"No sir, nothing else has escaped from the room," the butler boasted. "I run a tight ship here at Foulkes Rath. No detail gets by me - "

"All right, all right, I don't need your whole blooming c.v.! Now where's this study, my good man?"

As I expected, Klink was the type who liked to have his nose in the air but folded quick enough as soon as he was confronted with someone willing to exert his natural authority. Poor prat practically fell over himself trying to usher us quickly into the house and take our coats as he bowed up and down like a fishing bob, while all the time trying to keep ahead of us in order to have the prestige of being the first one to show us into the study.

"I thought he was going to sniff at us again," Carter whispered to me.

"Don't worry, he will once he's back below stairs and describing us to everyone he feels it safe to lord over," I explained as we made our way to the crime scene.

The inside of the house was your typical medieval assertion of 'I'm better than you': stone built chambers, a groined roof, narrow pointed windows with stained glass shields on 'em, oak floors, etc - all the appurtenances and other general sorts of things designed to have the rabble cowering with fear and awe. Bloody ponderous tat, in other words.

Inside the study we were confronted by a sight even uglier than I could have imagined: a huge fat man with a face like a dyspeptic toad.

"Klink!" the man bellowed. "What is the meaning of this?"

Klink's eyes goggled with terror and his bobbing took on frantic speed; I was afraid he'd done himself a mischief when I spotted the sickly, frozen smile he'd pasted on his face at the elephant's call. "Ah, Judge Burkhalter, these are the gentlemen young Mr. Kinchloe's lawyer has brought down from London to assist with the case. May I introduce - "

"No, you may not!" the man shouted. I tell you, herds of mastodons trumpeting to one another across the tundra had nothing on this bloke.

"No, sir, I may not," Klink parroted weakly, the bloody great jelly.

"I was under the impression that Inspector Lebeau from Scotland Yard was investigating, and that his investigation was already complete!" this Burkhalter went on.

"It is all right with me, monsieur," Inspector Lebeau shrugged dismissively, but the smirk he was trying to hide got my back up. "If mon ami Newkirk wants to waste his time just to come to the same conclusion that _I _have already reached, that is his business. I am sure he will cause no harm."

"He will cause great harm!" Fish-face protested. "Our case is complete and nothing is to interfere with it!"

"Not even the truth?" I wanted to know.

"We know the truth," the man stated. "There's no question Kinchloe killed his uncle."

"Then confirmation's hardly going to hurt any, is it," I said. "Think of how airtight your case'll be when two different investigations come out with the same thing."

"That is only providing you're not hear to muddy the issue. You are working for the suspect. What reason does that give me to suppose you're here to perform an objective investigation?"

"Well, a bloke's got a reputation to uphold, don't he?" I pointed out. "Can't go about making things up and having every Clever Dick KC show me up in court. It's not good for business."

"You have until Monday," he pronounced. He turned his attention to the butler. "Klink!" he ordered. "My coat!"

Once Klink had located and scurried back with it, he fumblingly tried to pull it onto the Judge, infuriating the Judge but thankfully providing a bit of comic relief for the rest of us. "Klink, you imbecile! I can do it myself!" he shouted.

"Yes, sir, you can do it yourself," Klink parroted again. "I mean, you're _able_ to do it yourself! Obviously you are capable of putting on your own coat - "

"Klink," the fat man oozed out dangerously, "Shut up."

"Yes, sir, shutting up sir."

With that, Judge Burkhalter pushed through us like a massive aircraft carrier at full speed, allowing us to finally see what had been hidden behind his great bulk: the scene of the crime.

_--x--_

"Gee, there's an awful lot of Germans in this Upper Tidwell place," Carter remarked.

"No help for it, mate. Who makes a better villain than your average Nazi?"

"You got me there."

"So how are you liking my little tale?"

"Uh… well, it's certainly an interesting picture into your mind, Newkirk."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Have you ever heard the word 'delusional' before? OW! Geez, don't hit the sick! No! No! C'mon, stop it!" Carter laughed.

"Delusional, am I?" Newkirk demanded as he playfully peppered Carter with light smacks about the arms and torso.

"Stop it! Stop it! Oh, oh, stop it before I tell Kinch you've made him _Hochstetter__'__s nephew_!"

"Blimey, Carter, now _that__'__s_ playing dirty!"

Carter was still laughing. "Oh, you should talk! Why're you being so mean to Lebeau? What's with all the 'froggies' and 'frenchies'?"

"Haven't you ever read a detective story, Andrew? The hero and the copper never get along! It's common knowledge. Besides, Louis was making fun of British cooking again. Just because he's to ignorant to 'ave heard of a Cornish pasty - "

"Don't you mean pas_try_?" Carter interrupted, asking seriously.

Newkirk sighed and buried his head in his hands. "I don't know why I bother. I really don't."

* * *

_Author's notes:_

The "Nowhere Inn Particular" is the name of an actual pub in Croydon. Very useful for those trying to dodge their significant others: "Where were you?" "Nowhere in particular."

panto - pantomime, a theatrical show usually produced at Christmastime and often based on a fairy tale.

c.v. - curriculum vitae - summary of qualifications and experience.

KC - King's Counsel: "a lawyer appointed with letters patent to be one of His [or Her's in the case of the Queen, making the initials QC] Majesty's Counsel learned in the law."

Cornish pasty: a baked, semi-circular pastry. Traditionally it was filled with beef, potato, turnip and onions, but today there's a great variety of fillings.


	5. Chapter 5

_**Chapter 5**_

_**---------**_

The scene of the crime was a nasty sight indeed. Even with my iron constitution and years of experience, I nearly recoiled from the spectacle that met my eyes. Partially congealed blood stained the oak floor in a great pool, splashes of it and… well, bits of things, dappled everything in that part of the room. Hearth, fireplace, furniture and even the nearby wainscoting - just covered.

_--x--_

"This is a real nice story, Newkirk. I'm so glad you're telling it to me. I'm surprised I'm not asleep already."

"Just going for atmosphere, mate - any artist knows you've got to set the stage properly when doing an entertainment."

"Lebeau is right, you know: you English are a cruel, cruel people. Couldn't you have told me something nicer? Like…I don't know, something about King Arthur's court, or something?"

"The reason I'm not telling you about King Arthur's court is that you'd spend the entire bloody story waiting for the wicked wenches! Now let me get back to it, will you!"

_--x--_

Carter, and even Hogan, didn't half come over a bit white, so I told them to stand back and turned my attention to Inspector Lebeau. "I take it there were no footprints?" I asked.

Shorty's gloating smile told me he was about to score on me. "Just one, mon ami," he informed me, "and it matched perfectly the bed-room slipper of Mr. James Kinchloe!"

But I wasn't about to put up with that sort of thing. I smiled at him. "Good for you mate - you're finally starting to come along as a detective. It seems the 'Little Tot's Big Book of Investigating Baddies' is doing you a world of good!"

Have you ever seen a Frenchman glower? Does the old heart good, I say. Warms the cockles right up.

"By the way," I went on, saving 'im the embarrassment of struggling to find a smart retort, "what about Kinchloe's dressing-gown?"

"What of it?" the Inspector demanded.

"Look around you," I explained. (Slowly, so as to let the more complicated concepts penetrate.) "The walls are practically dripping. Surely the front of Kinchloe's robe must be covered with blood, and if so, that will go a fair ways to proving your case."

Now, this was taking a bit of a chance of my part. I hadn't seen Kinchloe's dressing gown, so I might've just handed Lebeau the final shot and myself been forced to sit down to a table of humble pie, but, for me, this was going to be the point that tipped things over the edge. Till now I'd had my suspicions as to the suspect's possible innocence, but the Inspector's next answer would decide things, at least as to whether I would keep on with the case or not.

Lebeau, the poor sod, thought he was about to put another nail in the coffin, but when he said, "Now that you mention it, mon ami, the sleeves _were_ blood-soaked."

_Ha, got him! _I thought. The _sleeves_. If the front had been soaked he would have said, but he only said the _sleeves_. However, I played it close to the vest and kept the exultation out of my voice. "Natural enough innit, considering he helped the butler raise up the dying man's head? No, you won't get much out of blood being on the sleeves; it's the front we want to look at. Have you got the thing here, by any chance?"

The Inspector fetched a Gladstone bag from the hall and pulled the thing out. It was a woollen affair and light grey in colour - just right for showing the blood.

"Sleeves and hem are saturated, but not a mark on the front," I noted. "Curious, that."

"How so, _curious_? " Lebeau inquired sceptically.

"No need for me to go over all that, I'm sure. No doubt you've already got the whole story worked out. Now, what about the weapon?"

Lebeau drew it out of the same Gladstone bag the robe had been in and Carter whistled when he saw it. "Boy! That's a heck of meat cleaver," he said. I had to agree. Made entirely of steel, with a short haft, a narrow neck and a broad, vile-looking, crescent shaped blade - just the sort of thing you'd want when sectioning up some poor bugger's skull into grapefruit halves.

The Inspector must've been thinking along the same lines, because he said, "The whole top of the Squire's skull split like a rotten melon. It is a miracle he even regained consciousness for that little moment when he told the room that Kinchloe was the murderer."

"Called him by name, from what Hogan here said," I asked, in way of confirmation.

"Oui, that is so."

"Well, actually he said 'Catch-low,' " Klink the butler interjected. I noticed the Inspector shot a glare his way; Frenchie never could take people correcting him. "B..but I am sure that he meant Kinchloe," Klink stammered out quickly, withering under the inspector's frown, "Who else could he have meant? And he was dying. Perhaps I heard him wrong. No, no, I am positive he meant Kinchloe. He must have meant Kinchloe. I do not know why I even brought it up - "

Blimey, for a moment I wished that sack of lard Burkhalter were still here to shut the poor sod up!

"Please, Klink, that's enough!" Hogan ordered, and I can see where'd he be a devil in the court room. Not that it would've taken much to put a stopper in Klink, but the lawyer had a smooth, yet commanding way about him and no mistake. "I suggest we move this investigation along. I think we'd all like to see the body now - "

"Don't be so sure about that, pal!" Carter exclaimed. He was going to say something else, but I shushed him and then said how seeing the body had been exactly what I was going to suggest.

Klink lead us to the gun-room, thankfully without saying more than, "This way, gentlemen."

No point in boring you with the room's accoutrements; suffice to say that Kinchloe could have laid his hands on many more convenient weapons than the hair-splitter of a man in a black mask. Like any country squire worth his salt, Hochstetter had been ready to host a shooting party for any number of guests at a moment's notice. Probably it was all for show, seeing as how the squire didn't strike me as the hospitable type, but it meant that the murderer either didn't know the lay-out of the house or that he'd committed the murder on the spur of the moment, grabbing the axe - and I'd spotted the trophy piece it was missing from while we'd all been in the study - because it was the nearest thing he could lay 'is hands on.

Or, perhaps, the killer used the axe because he had hated him _that_ much.

_--x--_

"If he's anything like our Hochstetter, I think I could hate him that much."

"You?" Newkirk asked with a snort, "How would you go about it then, Killer?"

"I don't know. Maybe I'd mix up some really bad poison. Like some kind of sulphuric acid," Carter explained enthusiastically.

"You can mix poisons?" Newkirk questioned, still scoffing, but there was a hint of uncertainty in his eyes. "How come you've never done it, then?"

"Who says I haven't?"

"You have? What for?" Newkirk's look was downright wary now.

Carter shrugged. "Well, it's kinda hard to have a skill and never use it, you know?"

"Right…" Peter Newkirk, the intrepid hero said as he edged down the bench imperceptibly away from Carter. "I think we should get back to the story now."

Carter smiled to himself.

_--x--_

We all trooped into the room (even Carter, who stumbled along at the back), but I was the only one who went right up to the messy cadaver. Someone had definitely made a right hash of an English squire, but by examining the fatal wound, I was more certain than ever that it hadn't been the unfortunate James Kinchloe.

Lebeau had said the whole _top_ of the Squire's head, but the wound was at the _back_ of the head, just above the base of the neck and slightly to the left, suggesting that the killer was of a height with his victim. I turned to Hogan.

"How tall is Kinchloe?" I asked. The pictures in the papers had made him out as a large bloke, but I wanted to be certain.

"About 6'3", why?"

"No reason. Did Kinchloe ever confide in you about when the Squire started selling off bits of his estate?"

"The first sale was about a year ago," the lawyer replied. "Kinch was very upset because it the Squire sold it to the Black Jack Timber Mill."

"Why ever would that bother him?"

"Well, the Squire sold it at a loss for a start. But it was also that stripping the woods in that part of the estate ruined not only that particular area, but it also ruined the whole view from Ashdown cliff, which significantly devalued the land surrounding the prospect."

"What about the other sales?" I questioned further.

"The second sale was also galling to Kinch, as it lead to the eviction of several very loyal tenants."

"Was the Squire going to make money on the deal?"

"Not according to Kinch," the lawyer answered.

"So why'd Squire Hochstetter do it?" Carter asked the room at large. "Sounds like a couple of really dumb deals to me."

I smiled. "I believe I might have a possible idea."


	6. Chapter 6

_**Chapter 6**_

_**---------  
**_

"And what is your idea, mon ami?" Inspector Lebeau sneered.

"I don't believe I'll reveal it quite yet," I said. "There are a few things that I need to check on first." I turned to the butler. "Klink, did the squire receive any letters in yesterday's post?"

"Yes, there was a letter, sir. I took it to the squire right away, just as I always do. The squire always knew he could trust me to bring him any important letters. 'Klink,' he would say - "

"Yes, all right, all right," I broke in. Blimey, this bloke's self-importance was enough to drive you spare! "Can you tell us anything else about the letter?"

"Of course! You cannot run a household such as this one without being observant. Every single thing must be watched eternal vigilance to keep things running smoothly. No detail must be allowed to escape - "

"Please!" I shouted. "The letter?"

"Yes, yes, of course. The letter bore a local postmark, I remember. And it came in a very ordinary cheap envelope such as most people from the village use." The eternal disparaging sniff in his tone was back again, I noted. "However, I was surprised - " and here, miracle of miracles, he actually shut up of his own accord. Unfortunately, it was at the exact ruddy spot when he finally seemed about to reveal something useful!

"_Yes?"_ I prodded the silly old sod, "You saw something that surprised you? What was it? Something in how the squire was acting? What?"

"Yes, sir. When I presented it to him, on a silver tray of course, most head butlers today I find lack the proper - "

"You presented him the letter…" I growled; much more of this and I'd set to finding an excuse for Carter to play with his blasting caps in the servant's quarters.

_--x--_

"Guess dynamite in the kitchen and a bit of spilled tea doesn't look so bad now, does it?" Carter pointed out rather smugly.

"Can I get on with it, please?"

"Say it."

"Say wot?"

"Say I'm less annoying than Klink."

"That's not saying much; bubonic plague is less annoying than Klink."

"Say it…"

Now it was Newkirk's turn to roll his eyes. "All right, all right, you're less annoying than Wilhelm bleedin' Klink. Now may I please get back to the story?"

"Thank you."

_--x--_

"I presented him the letter," Klink continued, "and as soon as I gave it to him, he tore it open - most ungentlemanlylike, if I may say so - and as he read it there came a look on his face that would have made a weaker man than I glad to leave the room."

I decided to forgo commenting on the 'weaker man than I' in the interests of wrapping up the case sometime this decade. "Did the squire send a response?" I asked wearily.

"No, sir. The squire sent no response, I would remember it if he had. Just the other week, the squire gave me a most vital matter to take care of and I - "

"Did the squire keep the letter?" I interrupted.

"No, sir," Klink said. "When I later returned to the room there were bits of burnt paper smouldering in the grate."

"Ah, now we're getting somewhere!" I said, rubbing my hands together. Out of habit, I nearly told him his assistance had been invaluable, but I caught myself in time. Last flaming thing I needed was for him to start his whole 'the world would fall to pieces without me' routine once more, especially when I still had one more question to ask him. "Now, Klink, I need you to think carefully, which I'm sure you always do," I said, rushing in that last bit before he could give me any examples, "and tell me if you recall your master receiving any similar letters round about the last time he sold some of his land."

Marvellous, just ruddy marvellous! _Now_ he was stumped. He tried to wave it off with a nervous titter, "No, sir, but I am sure - "

"It's all right, Klink. Thank you. I think that is all. Now I would like to do a more thorough examination of the study."

With this announcement I had to face the expected round of reactions: Carter's expression was resigned (he'd long since given up trying to follow my reasoning), Klink looked put out at being dismissed, Hogan appeared curious and Inspector Lebeau rolled his eyes, pretending exasperation at my farce (as he would call it) of an investigation, yet no doubt gloating inside because it looked as though I was clutching at straws.

The thing of it is, I was. There were enough clues to persuade me that Kinchloe was innocent, but nothing I could build a sufficient case around. And, worse luck, I still had no idea who the _true _killer was.

_--x--_

"Don't even start, Andrew!" Newkirk ordered, pointing a warning finger. Carter closed his mouth again, but couldn't keep from grinning.

_--x--_

Once the lot of us, minus Klink, had trooped back to the study, I directed Carter, Hogan and the Inspector to sit down by the trestle, out of the way. Then, pulling out my magnifying glass, I started in on my examination.

Now, this is where yer truly strong-willed detective shines; not only do you have to have the stomach to look closely at all sorts of nasty things, but you also have to have the enormous self-discipline for a precise and methodical scrutiny of the whole environment around the crime scene. Lots of blokes wouldn't have the strength to be so patience, let alone to stay alert while doing so. Because it's more than just not letting yourself become distracted, it's the ability to be attentive to details, and still more importantly, being able to deduce what they mean, even though your mind's being lulled with the sheer numbing mundaneness of what you're doing. A skillful detective can't afford to miss that vital clue what yer weaker-minded individuals would.

_--x--_

"Well, _Gosh! _It's a darn good thing you're there, Newkirk! Who else could _ever_ possibly do the job?"

"Was that sarcasm?"

"Oh, _no! _Not at all!"

_--x--_

As I was saying, I pulled out my magnifying glass and started my examination. I had to crawl about on my hands and knees, but that's the job, innit? The blood-stains, the hearth, the mantle, the floor, all needed to be thoroughly inspected.

Fifteen minutes of displaying my backside to bigwig lawyers, lowly assistants -

_--x--_

"Hey!"

_--x--_

…and self-satisfied Inspectors, paid off when I got to the large (and to my expert eyes, a garish and suspected knock-off) Persian rug in the middle of the room. "Seems you might've missed a trick 'ere, Inspector," I said. "There's the trace of a footprint."

Lebeau gave Carter a wink and an elbow. "What of it, mon ami?" he asked me with a grin, "Many people have passed over the rug."

"Did you check the weather on the way down, Froggie? Hasn't rained for days."

"_And?" _he questioned.

"And the shoe what made this mark was slightly moist. It weren't water, but there is something else in this room to account for it - blood. It's left a little stain by the outermost orange bit…here."

"What does that mean?" Carter asked.

"It means someone was in this room after blood had been spilt, and by the looks of the print, it was not the shoe of a man as tall as Kinchloe or Klink."

"It means nothing," Lebeau said with a dismissive gesture. "There are many other servants in this house. They could have come into the room to help carry the Squire's body out."

"And have you inquired about that?" I asked.

Ah, a Frenchman squirming is a wonderful sight. Almost as good as one having to admit to something, which the Inspector was forced to do next. "I will see to it now," he then reluctantly muttered and got up to leave the room.

"You might come look at the mark before you plod your way through questioning the entire household," I suggested.

And tt was when the Inspector had stepped up close and I bent over the mark again to show it to him, that I spotted something else extremely interesting.

"Hullo, now what do we have here?"


	7. Chapter 7

_**Chapter 7**_

_**---------**_

"You know, Inspector, this footprint could have come from your foot," I remarked. "Looks to be about the same size."

"Oh, ho, ho. Cela est très drôle! You should be a comedian. Now what is so interesting?"

I scraped a bit of something off of the rug and used my lens to examine it in my hand. Then I passed the glass to the Inspector.

"Dust? You are excited about dust?" he asked incredulously. No imagination, these police inspectors. Pitiful, really.

"Pine-wood dust," I corrected him. "See? You can spot the fine grain here. I took it from the wet traces of the foot-print."

"So what?" Carter blurted out. "I don't see what that's got to do with anything."

_--x--_

"Geez, Newkirk, do you gotta make me so dumb? Even I would know it's a clue!" the real Carter protested. "In fact, I bet I even know what it means! It has to do with that - "

"Don't jump ahead of the story, Andrew! You're going to ruin it."

"Ruin it for who? I'm the only one listening."

"Ruin it for me, you silly prat! I'm trying to impart a bit of panache to the whole thing; you could let me get around to things like the reveal and the wrap-up in my own time. You're going to throw the whole pace and style of the thing right off completely."

"The reveal? Shouldn't that be 'the revelation?' "

"It's a show-business term…oh, never mind. Just keep quiet."

"Sorry."

_--x--_

"Come with me, Carter. I need to stretch my legs for a moment," I said to my assistant, **who didn****'****t have any idea of what an important clue I****'****d just found**_**,**__ the real Newkirk said rather pointedly to his audience, _and once outside I pulled him in the direction of the stables.

Out in the cobbled yard, we came upon a groom loafing about near the water pump. He wasn't agreeable to helping us at first - shameful the attitude of yer average servant these days - but once he learned it required no physical outlay of effort on his part, he obliged us to the point of at least listening. After that, there was some reluctance to be got over about the idea of helping us find who had killed the squire, since, not being as obsequious as Klink, he felt whoever it was what had done the old bugger in deserved a medal, or at the very least to get away with it. However, using my natural charm and powers of persuasion, I was able to overturn his arguments by pointing out that Mr. Kinchloe might hang for it. As Hogan had told us on the way down, Kinchloe was very popular with the staff, having interceded many times on their behalf with the awful squire. Suddenly the groom was helpfulness itself, or at least to the point where he was willing to point out to us what horse Hochstetter had been riding that fateful night.

"It were Black Russian over there, last stall on yer right," he informed us, pointing the way with a lazy nod of his head. "Proper devil, that one," he went on to warn us. "Don't let his affectionate manner fool you none."

I thanked the groom and we went to the horse's stall. I pulled out my penknife and handed it to Carter. "Here. Scrape a sample of mud off the horse's hooves."

"What? Why me?" Carter whined.

"It'll trust you - you've got a horsey face."

_--x--_

"I have not got a horsey face! Besides, isn't scraping the hooves of the dangerous devil horse something that the _hero_ should be doing? Why am I the one risking a kick to the head?"

"I don't see what you're getting so worked up about, Andrew. It's not as if the horse'd be hurting anything you've ever used."

"Oh, ha ha! I still say it's a job for the _great detective_."

"Nonsense. You're the assistant, 'bout time you got _assisting_. Other than making the tea and setting the kitchen on fire, you've done nothing throughout the whole story but stand around gawping."

"And who the heck's fault is that?" Carter demanded.

"Well, no wonder I never asked you to do anything before! Here's the very first thing I ask of you and look at the fuss you're making!"

"Hmpf. I think the heroic detective is afraid of a horse."

_--x--_

After Carter whined and argued and generally showed what a great nancy 'e was, I realized that, once again, the job was going to be down to me. I grabbed the knife back from Carter and calmly approached the horse.

"Now, now, there's a good lad," I said. "We're not going to hurt you. There's no reason to be nervous."

It was tramping with its forelegs a bit, if that's the right expression, but you could tell it had no fear of us. More like he was toying with us, because I swear the bloody beast was giving us a look. A _mocking_ look. One as what said, _'__Are you certain you two gents know what you__'__re in for?__'_ I swear that if it'd been human, one eyebrow would've been raised and a smirk would've been on it's face.

But here's where the steely resolution of your top-flight detective comes to the fore. Stepping up slowly to the beast, I serenely started to brush its withers while talking softly to it. I've been told by many that I have a soothing, yet commanding, voice -

_--x--_

A distinct snort was heard from the assembly.

_--x--_

…and one which yer average horse, **being smarter than most**, _Newkirk stressed with a glare_, naturally picks up on. After that, it weren't but the trick of a moment to move back and scrape some of the earth off of its hooves. Passing the clumps to Carter, I told him to stick them in an envelope.

"I don't have any envelopes."

"Blimey! Didn't we go through this the last time? 'Ow am I supposed to store evidence if you don't have any envelopes on you to store it in?"

"Sorry! But it's not like I've got a habit of writing lots of letters while I'm walking around, so I don't think of it."

"Fine assistant you are, Carter. Never mind, just keep hold of them till we get back to the house. Klink should know where some are."

"Maybe you'd like him to be your assistant," he huffed, rather petulantly I might add.

"Oh, just come along."

He eyed the fragments in his hands. "Yechh, I think that horse has been walking through it's own manure!" he complained as he fell in behind.

"It's always something with you, isn't it?" I said.

Ten minutes later, we had stored our evidence (Klink was most offended at the very idea of using the house's fine stationary for such a thing), washed our hands, endured more mocking from Inspector Lebeau and collected our coats.

"Where to now?" Carter asked me.

"Off to the inn, I think. I could do with a pint and a bit of something to eat."

"But the case isn't done yet!"

"Trust me, mate. I know what I'm doing."

"Well, okay, as long as there aren't any horses at the inn."

There were no horses, what had stepped in clues or otherwise, at the inn. There was, however, the local publican Hans Schultz, who I had been informed had lived in these parts for decades. After we'd got ourselves on the outside of a couple of hotpots, I sent Carter up to our room to unpack while I settled in for a natter with the landlord.

"Oh, Mr. Kinchloe, such a nice man," the jolly old fellow was commiserating a short time later, jowls quivering with every shake of his hand.

"Not the type to open up his uncle's skull, would you say?"

"No, no. I cannot believe it. He would not do such a foolish thing."

"From what I've heard, it doesn't sound all that foolish."

He bleedin' goggled at me! "What do you mean, Herr Newkirk?" But then, just as quick, he held up his hands. "No, do not tell me. I want to know nothing!"

"But you 'ave to admit, the squire weren't exactly a ray of sunshine. None too popular with the townsfolk at any rate."

"You should not say such things," Schultz cautioned me, but I couldn't tell if he was worried or just a soft-hearted teddy bear not wanting to speak ill of the dead.

"Why not?" I pressed. "Seems like he went out of his way to make enemies here. Was it different when he was younger?"

It was almost comical the way the big man flapped his gums as he hemmed and hawed. "No, I cannot say that is true," he finally, reluctantly admitted.

"Heavy-handed terror even back then, was he?"

"I do not like to say so, but yes."

"Tell me, mate," I said as I put down a crown for another pint and waved at him to keep the change, "have you ever heard any rumours about him over the years? Something not generally known is what I'm getting at."

"I am not sure of what you mean."

"Did he do someone dirty and get away with it? But something he didn't want people knowing about."

"No, I know of nothing like that. But…"

"But?"

Schultz peered around room exaggeratedly - this Hochstetter must've been a nasty piece of work if a bloke was still afraid of word getting back to him even after he'd died - and leaned over to whisper, "I know he came back from Canada very, very quickly."

"Really? That's interesting. Do you know why?"

"No, but I do know that one night, when he had had too much schnapps, he was very angry at someone called Ketchum. He blamed Ketchum for forcing him to leave Canada and all that nice gold."

"Ketchum, eh? Did he say anything more about this Ketchum?"

Schultz thought for a long moment; seems like it wasn't an activity he did often. "He called him 'Ketchum Lowe.' "

Ketchum Lowe? _Catch-low? _Blimey! Could it be something as simple as a muddled name? "Whereabouts in Canada did the squire make his fortune?" I asked Schultz.

"In Quebec," he told me. "In a little town called Lac Noir."

I spit out my drink. "Lac Noir!" I sputtered. "Are you sure?"

"Ja. It means Black Lake."

Bloody Hell, I knew who'd done it!


	8. Chapter 8

_**Chapter 8**_

_**---------**_

Carter sat up on his bunk. "Who? Who was it?"

"Blimey, didn't we just have this conversation? I'll get to it all in good time."

_--x--_

It was getting on to midnight, so I was forced to rouse the man at the telegraph office out of his bed. He apparently wasn't going to go to the trouble of opening both eyes until he'd determined my business was worth bothering about, and the one annoyed and bleary one peering at me already suggested I was on shaky ground.

"What do you want?"

"My apologies for waking you, mate - "

"That's Mr. Baker to you."

"Sorry, _Mr. Baker_. And I'm still sorry for waking you, but I need to send an urgent telegram to a place called Lac Noir. It's in Canada."

He rolled over and made to go back to sleep. "Geez! Why don't you just telephone?" he muttered.

"Are you serious, mate? Sorry, I mean Mr. Baker. But do you know what the charges would be for a trunk call that far away? Besides, who knows if a tiny little stop in the road like that even has a bleedin' phone in the first place?"

"How do you know it's small? Have you ever been there?"

"Do us a favour, mate - how many big places do you think they've got over there?"

"Canada always struck me as a very well built-up place, with many modern conveniences!"

"It would do! But then when's the last time you've ever been out of this one-horse town? Look, never mind all of this, are you going to send the telegram or not?"

I'll skip over the rest of it, let's just say good service in Upper Tidwell consists of arguing every step with the customer before finally doing the thing people are trying to pay you to do, and then grumbling the whole time while you do it. After that, I had to plead my case for yet another telegram to a sergeant friend of mine at the Yard called Olsen. Then, after that point, things unfortunately came down to what they almost always come down to: waiting. The answer was right in front of me, but until the replies to my telegrams came, there was nothing solid to hold onto.

The next morning I awoke to an elephant of a landlord trampling his way through my door. (I expect landlords must get a different sort of training over in Germany than what they do here.) "Raus! Raus! Mr. Newkirk!" Schultz bellowed. "There are telegrams for you! One is from _Scotland Yard_!" he said with an unwarranted sense of awe. (Easily impressed, these country types are; comes from listening to too many of yer poorer quality programmes on the wireless.)

"All right, Schultzie, thank you, I heard you the first time." I sat up and he handed me the messages.

"What do they say?" he asked.

I didn't let on how excited I was. " 'Bout what I expected. Thank you, Schultz. Oh, you couldn't do me a favour, could you?"

"What is it?"

"You couldn't go and rouse my assistant the same way you did me? Only he's never had the full treatment of a really fine establishment like this one. One of yer provincial types, you know how it is. He'll be really impressed with getting his own personalized wake-up call."

_--x--_

"Gee, thanks buddy," Carter said sarcastically.

Newkirk lifted his chin and his eyes took on a saintly glaze. "Well, that's me for you - I'm always thinking of the benefit to others. Many consider it my chief failing, but it's just my way."

"Unh huh."

_--x--_

As the old master himself will tell you (and in fact did in _"__The Valley of Fear__"__)_: the most practical thing what bloke wanting to be a detective can do is to shut 'imself up in a room for three months and read the annuals of crime all day. Now I can't say as I've ever gone to that extreme, but I have done my studying of that section of the papers over the years, not to mention more than a few books, and that's how I knew of the most infamous resident of Lac Noir, Quebec.

Black Jack (or Blacque Jacque as some feeble-minded Fleet Street wag from some rag of the more yellow variety dubbed him), was one of the most famous criminals of the last fifty years -

_--x--_

"I've never heard of him!"

"Cause I just made him up, you twit. He's only famous in the story."

"Oh," Carter said sheepishly. "Sorry."

_--x--_

As I was saying, Black Jack was one of the most notorious criminals of the last half century. Cynics would argue it were only down to the romance of his being in the right area during the wild days of the famous Gold Rush, but make no mistake, his crimes were horrifying ones, filled with the most awful, cold and malicious lack of regard for human life.

Black Jack.

Pine dust.

The Black Jack Timber Mill.

And "Ketchum Lowe".

It was all falling into place.

After getting dressed and washing up, I heard Carter speaking to someone out in the hall and so I joined him there. Mr. Hogan was with him. "Come with me," I told both of them, "We need to find Inspector Lebeau."

We came into the Inspector's room and found him packing to leave. "What's this?" I asked him. "Going already, mate? But the case isn't done yet!"

"Oh, mon ami!" he moaned while pulling his extra shirts out of the dresser. "When will you learn that not every case has a surprise ending? True detective work is not looking for the 'twist' in the crime. As we policemen know, most cases are not meant for storybooks."

"Most cases, maybe, mon ami," I said, "but not this one."

"Oh no?"

"Come for a walk with us, mate. I guarantee you that you're in for a surprise."

It was a walk I'll never forget. The three of them followed me across meadows, along quiet woods, and down placid sheep tracks over gently sloping hills. When we finally heard the violent whirring of the saws that marked our destination, nothing could have seemed more out of place.

Some would argue that taking everyone to the timber mill was unnecessary or just a bit of show on my part, but I had my reasons. I would corner my prey here, giving myself a chance to observe him before I did. He would not come easily, I knew, and the situation was such that the whole sodding mess was going to be hard to convince others of, so I was also hoping that being in the midst of all this solid proof might make the crime that much harder for him to deny.

I didn't hesitate, and lead my little party through the maze of the out buildings and storage sheds and timber shacks of the Black Jack Timber Mill - directly to a hut marked "Manager". I knocked sharply.

After a brief moment, a young man poked his head out of the door. "Excuse me, mate," I said, "Are you Mr. Langenschiedt?"

"Yes. Can I help you?" he asked, opening the door and stepping out.

"Actually, I think I can help you. 'Ow'd you like to meet the owner of this place?"

He looked at me, quite puzzled. "Pardon?"

"The owner of the mill, mate. I've brought him with me." I whipped round to face the men behind me. "That's him right there," I said, pointing. "Inspector Louis Lebeau!"


	9. Chapter 9

_**Chapter 9**_

_**---------**_

"_LEBEAU!" _Carter yelled in shock.

Louis Lebeau, who had been sitting just outside the barracks, opened the door and popped his head in. "Carter? Did you yell for me?"

"No, Newkirk's mmphf mmnhmme…" Carter started to explain, but suddenly there was a hand over his mouth.

"He said, 'couldn't throw,' " Newkirk quickly told Lebeau. "We were talking about baseball. He said uh…Babe Ruth couldn't throw."

"What is so wrong with that? Why do you have your hand over his mouth?" Lebeau asked.

"Well, he's getting 'imself too worked up, inn't he? It's not good for him in his condition. He needs to stay still." Newkirk turned to Carter and gave him a stern look. Wagging a finger at the other man, "No more baseball talk for you," he ordered. "We don't need you playing yourself out and making yourself sick again."

Lebeau regarded the two of them suspiciously for a few more moments. No one blinked. Finally he rolled his eyes and went back outside. Whatever the truth was, he figured he wouldn't want to hear it anyway.

"Geez, why the heck did you do that?" Carter asked once Lebeau had left and Newkirk had removed his hand. When Newkirk didn't answer and suddenly couldn't look him in the eye, Carter's mouth began to twitch. Suddenly he laughed. "I get it! You're embarrassed!"

"Rubbish!" Newkirk protested feebly. "Whatever 'ave I got to be embarrassed about?"

Carter's grin was a mile wide. "Either you didn't want Lebeau finding out you made him the killer, _orrr__…_" he said, drawing out the word and watching Newkirk closely for his reaction, "you didn't want him knowing that you're telling me a story." He clapped his hands and then pointed at Newkirk. "HA! I knew it! It's the second one, isn't it! Isn't it!"

"I don't know what you're on about."

"You do too. But what's the big deal? We all tell stories all the time."

"Not made-up ones."

"Is that what the problem is? But Peter, it's a really good story!"

"I don't care. Either you say you won't tell them or I won't tell you the ending!" Newkirk threatened.

"Okay, okay. Gee, somebody's a little sensitive. I betcha anything though that the others would love to hear it."

"Carter…"

"Well, maybe you could cut down on the intrepid hero stuff and I don't know if Lebeau would like being made into a killer - "

"_Carter__…_"

"and I don't know if Kinch'd be happy either, I mean about you making him Hochstetter's nephew and come to think of it, he hasn't had any lines yet - " Carter kept going, "but the Colonel would probably get a kick out of it. Unless he wouldn't like being a minor character; he's used to being in charge, you know. But I don't think he'd mind, since it's just a story after all - "

"_CARTER!"_

"Newkirk! I'm trying to tell you something important here! Would you listen?"

"No. That's it. I've had it. You're not getting the rest of the story now."

"Oh, don't be such a big crybaby. I was just teasing ya, buddy! I think they'd all like it a lot, but if you don't want me to say anything, I won't." Carter held up his right hand, "Honest. I promise."

Newkirk gaze narrowed as he stared at Carter. "I'm going to take you at your word," he finally said after a couple of minutes, "so you'd better watch yourself."

Carter nodded sincerely. "I swear, Peter. I won't tell anybody."

"All right, then."

_--x--_

"That's him right there," I said, pointing. "Inspector Louis Lebeau!"

"What?" Lebeau cried. "What is this foolishness? I do not own a timber mill, I am a detective."

I stepped up to him and faced him squarely. "That you are, mate. A detective. And for all the times I give you the wind up, you're a good one. Too good to make the mistakes you've made on this case," I said quietly.

"What mistakes, Mr. Newkirk," Hogan asked.

"Like mistaking the location of the squire's wound," I answered him, still looking at Louis. "You said the _top _of his head," I explained, "but anyone could see that the axe struck the _back_ of his head, close to the neck."

"That does not mean that _I_ killed him," Lebeau scoffed, but he backed up a step. He was nervous now.

"No, but your lying about it was certainly enough to make me suspicious. You couldn't have made such a stupid mistake, but then that could only mean you were trying to misdirect us. But why? Because you knew what placement of the wound meant: Kinchloe could have caught the old bloke's head on an upswing, but the split was deepest in the middle, meaning it was more likely the swing had come in straight and the killer was just a touch under the victim's height."

"That means nothing," he continued to deny, but he backed away by another step. I shot a look to Hogan and Carter and they quickly got behind him.

"There are other things," I went on. "The footprint you conveniently didn't notice, for instance. The _small _footprint. I was pulling your leg when I said it could've been yours, but I did notice the likeness."

"And then there was the pine dust, which lead me to believe there was a connection to this place - pine dust embedded not only in the bloody footprint, but also in the dirt scraped from the hooves of the squire's horse. The squire made a visit to the timber mill the night he was killed, and then someone from the timber mill was in the squire's study _after_ there was blood on the floor. The squire's visit to the mill could possibly be explained away as a simple matter of business, though a little suspect so late in the evening, but the strange footprint connected some unknown person to the entire affair. And _that_ is a connection you should have made. _Would__'__ve_ have made any other time, so why not now? Why didn't you even want to investigate? I came to you this morning and you were packing to leave, still convinced Kinchloe was the murderer, even though there's a whole household of witnesses to confirm he never left the manor last night."

I finally came to the heart of the matter. "And then there was the matter of the squire's sudden history of making bad business deals, the sort which he knows won't benefit 'im."

"Any business deal has a chance of going bad," the Inspector argued.

"True," I conceded, "But deals like that can also mean blackmail is tangled up in the mess somehow, and you're too good mate, not to 'ave even looked into the matter. Not when the bloke's also been secretly burning letters in his grate and going on mysterious evening rides. And most especially not when that self-same bloke has just been done in with an axe. So I had to ask myself, Louis, why were you so determined not to investigate. But I never would've dreamed it was because you were the one doing the blackmailing - "

"That's a lie!" the Inspector suddenly shouted. Hogan grabbed him and he struggled in the taller man's arms. "It wasn't blackmail! The filthy pig, he was paying back what never belonged to him!"

"Because he ruined your father?" I asked.

"Because he killed my sister!" Lebeau cried. Carter gasped behind me, and I'll admit that I wasn't half surpised as well.

"I wired the police in Lac Noir last night, but they never said anything about your sister!"

The Inspector spit furiously on the ground. "That was how the bastard destroyed my father. He was Black Jack! He didn't make his money by mining. He made it by swindling every poor prospector who came around. But my father was a constable with the RCMP. He was famous!"

"Catch'em low Lebeau," I whispered. "He _was_ famous, mate."

"Oui! And he fought Hochstetter at every turn! Or he did until Hochstetter kidnapped my sister. Then he held her life over my father's head for years. My father could do nothing but look the other way, dying inside all the time."

"But when Hochstetter made the mistake of killing her…"

"That's when my father was free to punish him. He drove himself to death, but he made Hochstetter run!"

"But then you came across Hochstetter here and you saw that his life wasn't in ruins, that he in Upper Tidwell, living like a toff on his own family's estate."

"How could I let that be?" Lebeau cried plaintively. "How was it fair?"

"But why didn't you just kill him right away?" Carter asked before I could stop him.

"Because the swine deserved to be bled dry, slowly dying by inches like my father and poor sister died!" Lebeau hissed.

"Then why did you kill him now, after only taking a few bits off of him?" I wanted to know.

"Because he refused to pay the blackmail any longer. He was willing to pay enough to keep me quiet so that he could still have his life here without there being trouble, but not more. Not enough to hurt him."

Hogan, ever the lawyer, asked, "Why didn't you arrest him, or arrange to have him extradited to Canada?"

Lebeau hung his head. "I had no proof," he explained. "Only my father knew all of the facts and he died before he would share them with me. He did not want me to be eaten by revenge like he was."

The poor bloke was done. The three of us escorted him to Judge Burkhalter's and arranged for him to be taken away to Lewes. I felt sorry for the Inspector. I couldn't wonder but that, had I been in a similar situation, might I have not done the same thing. And, if hadn't been for the need of freeing an innocent man, I wonder too if I might have been tempted to let him go.

However, as I said, there was Kinchloe to think of. At the same time Hogan went to see to the arrangements for Lebeau, he also had the much more pleasant job of freeing his good friend and being able to prove James Kinchloe's innocence to the world.

Since Hogan wasn't returning to London, Carter and I decided to take the train back. On the way, I obliged Carter by answering his remaining questions.

"So it wasn't 'Kinchloe' that the squire said - "

"Nor 'Ketchum Lowe' like Schultz the landlord thought," I put in.

"But 'Catch'em Low'. What kind of nickname is that?"

"Blokes at the Yard joke that it was because he was so short he had to tackle villains at the knees. However, since I believe the Mounties have a height requirement, it's more likely the story I got from the Canadian authorities is true: Lebeau senior was a relentless tracker who always caught whoever was doing something low."

"So the Inspector's father chased Hochstetter out of Canada, forcing him to leave his fortune. But didn't Mr. Hogan say that the squire had a lot of money when he came back from Canada?"

"I got my friend Olsen to check on that, amongst other things. It seems our squire was a master of misdirection and juggling debt. He didn't have nearly the money that the village thought he did at the time. His fortune only came later as he swindled his way through the population in these parts."

"How did you know about Lebeau's father in the first place?"

"Like I said, he was famous. At least in detection circles. Unfortunately, his downfall was famous too, and anyone who didn't take a liking to Inspector Lebeau thought nothing of spreading the story around. They didn't do it as often once the Inspector started making his way up the ranks, but the rumours have been about for years."

"So you knew the whole story as soon as Mr. Schultz mentioned Lac Noir."

"Pretty much. I wired Canada for information on Black Jack and what happened to him. They knew Lebeau senior had run the sorry bugger out, but not what happened to him. And the date of his disappearance matched up with the squire's return to England. The wire to Olsen was not only to check on Hochstetter, but also to see if he could confirm the owner of the Black Jack Timber Mill. Lebeau did a good job of hiding his tracks, but Olsen was able to run it down."

"Why'd Lebeau call it the Black Jack Timber Mill? Seems to me that he wouldn't want to be reminded of what happened in Canada."

"I think it was to intimidate Hochstetter. A sort of permanent reminder of what Lebeau knew, right on his own estate."

Carter sat back and watched the scenery for awhile, pondering all of this. "Can I ask you one more question?" he asked a few minutes later.

"Ask away, mate."

"How could Klink have possibly mistaken Inspector Lebeau for Kinchloe when he came into the study that night when they were supposedly arguing?"

"Either the old sod got the time wrong and he really did see Kinchloe, or that flippin' monocle of his needs a bloody good wash!" I said.

_--x--_

"So that's it?" Carter asked.

"What more were you expecting? I'm not going to narrate the whole bleedin' trial for you."

"I don't know. The end just kind of lacks something. More…_panache_."

Newkirk grew suspicious at the shifty glint in Carter's eye. "Are you having a laugh?" he demanded.

"No, no," Carter chuckled. "I really think it needs something else. I know! I know! Maybe the intrepid assistant could prove it was really Newkirk framing Lebeau for the whole thing! Or he heroically recaptures the Inspector when the Inspector makes a break for it! Or - " But he didn't get any further because Newkirk hit him with a pillow.

_Two days later…_

Carter was up and around - done with his malingering as Newkirk put it - and outside enjoying the sunshine. Newkirk on the other hand, was in the barracks and deeply immersed in a new mystery novel he'd found in the latest pile of books the Red Cross had sent, when Lebeau stormed in and shook his fist at him.

"Vous avez le cervau d'un sandwich au fromage!" he shouted angrily at Newkirk.

_"Wot?!"_

"You have the brain of a cheese sandwich!" Lebeau translated. Newkirk fumed.

"_CARTER!" _

* * *

Well, there you go: a nice long chapter to wrap everything up. Hope you enjoyed it!

A couple of people have mentioned that they were unfamiliar with this particular Sherlock Holmes story and that's because it's not technically canon. The original story "The Adventure of Foulkes Rath" was one of twelve stories written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's youngest son Adrian, along with the mystery writer John Dickson Carr, in the book _The Exploits of Sherlock Holmes _published in 1952. Each story was based on an unsolved case mentioned in the canon however, this one being for 'the Addleton tragedy' from _The Golden Pince-Nez. _

Obviously, I took a bit of licence in having Newkirk claim the story as his own, but since my story is set during the war, he couldn't claim to have read it. However, I took more licence by changes I made to the story: putting the whole thing in Newkirk's dialect, having the hero and not the sidekick tell the story, adding the characters of the Judge and the telegraph man (apologies to Baker fans for making him so cranky, but the part was supposed to go to Gruber), etc.

However, the biggest alteration I made was in changing the killer and his motives. Inspector Lestrade is not the killer in the original; the real killer is a character we don't meet for the first time until the posse actually goes the timber mill, which I felt was a little weak. It also left me with the problem of which Hogan's Heroes character to put in that spot. Because of the clues, he needed to be a different height from the main suspect, yet also needed to have a similar or rhyming name. Why am I telling you all this? Because it means I had to deviate from the plot quite a bit, so if some clue doesn't make sense, it's my fault and not the fault of Doyle and Carr.

Finally, my apologies to all Kinch fans. I'm sorry he didn't get any lines at all. Maybe in the next story.

And yes, I know the guys don't have any pillows, but I wanted Newkirk to be able to hit Carter with some force but not hurt him. And I also know Babe Ruth started off as a pitcher, so please no emails from baseball fanatics either.


End file.
